Chapter Three（2）

They stared at me—or glared, as dispositions warranted—and I could see it cross a couple of minds that they should have let Amy shoot me back there in the trees.

Which reminded me of the man who had been shot. Suppose Annie Oakley had got carried away on guard duty and the others were covering for her?

Okay, thin, but I had seen a dead man in the middle of my dirt road and he had disappeared without a trace an hour later. Who shot him? Why? And what had become of his body? These folks were my nearest neighbors.

I said, “I never received this letter. I sure as hell never wrote this reply. Look, they’ve misspelled ‘gratuity.’” As though this were conclusive proof.

“Who did?” Kevin O’Reilly looked sheepish as soon as the words left his mouth.

“It looks to me like someone took a copy of a letter I sent them, typed their own message in the blanked-out body, and then traced my signature.”

“Who?” asked Amy and Bernice, still kind of missing the point.

“Why?” Marquez and Kevin chorused at the same time.

I felt like I’d stumbled into an episode of Scooby-Doo.

“I don’t know. Someone who wanted fifty bucks a week.” I believed I had a pretty good idea, since I recalled mailing a check in February to my legendary caretaker, Ted Harvey.

“I suppose you’re going to try and renege on your agreement,” Dr. Shoup said.

“I’m not reneging on anything. I don’t know that I want you digging holes in the scenery until I hear more about your little venture.”

“‘Little venture?’” The woman in the red bandana repeated indignantly. How to win friends and influence people: that was me.

“When Dr. Livingston returns, he’ll straighten this out,” Amy huffed. The rest of them looked less certain.

“I shall contact the university’s legal department,” Dr. Shoup informed me grandly.

I thought of dear old Mr. Gracen, our family solicitor, who’d spent the last sixty years writing and rewriting wills for clients even more aged and infirm than himself. I tried to picture him going toe-to-toe with lawyers who actually litigated for a living. I hoped the stress wouldn’t finish him. I said, “Fine. Maybe you can get together your paperwork so I can get an idea of what you’re trying to do here.”

“Accomplish” might have been a more tactful word, I realized, as they bristled and muttered amongst themselves.

Our meeting ended. In distrust and suspicion they watched me hike up the hill escorted by Kevin O’Reilly, who appeared uncomfortable in the role of bouncer.

At the crest of the hill Kevin said, “Uh … sorry about this.”

“Me too.” Somehow I never pictured myself standing in the way of higher education. “It could still work out, but I need a clearer picture of your operation. I’ve never heard of the Red Rover mine.” (It would have made more sense if they were exploring the Indian caves—not that I would have agreed to that either).

“I guess Dr. Shoup rubbed you the wrong way. He rubs everyone the wrong way, but he’s the real thing.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” A card-carrying prick if I ever met one.

“I mean, he’s got the credentials. He trained at Oxford. He worked at the British Museum. He’s a member of every society you can name: the Society of Historical Archeology, the National Science Foundation. He writes for National Geographic.”

Uh huh.

“Anyway, Livingston’s in charge here. He’s cool. You’ll see.”

The boyish enthusiasm was kind of cute. “Sure.”

Kevin hesitated. “So—last night that was probably you blasting the opera?”

The hills are alive with the sound of Muzak.

“I thought I was alone out here.”

He was smiling at me in a steady appreciative way and I quipped idiotically, “My mating call.”

“Yeah?”

“No.”

We both laughed and I trudged down my side of the mountain.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully and unprofitably. After lunch I got ambitious and hunted down the goose-feather mattresses, which had been wrapped in plastic and stored in the attic. After a wrestling match during which the mattress nearly threw me down the narrow stairs, I dragged its lumpy carcass into the bedroom I had used when I was a kid. Master of this house I might be, but I didn’t feel ready to claim my grandmother’s room as my own. I still felt like a visitor here.

The ground floor room had a stunning view of the distant snowy mountains. I made up the four-poster bed and spent the next couple of hours clearing bird nests out the chimney flue. Not that it didn’t need doing, but I’d supposedly come up here to write and I’d yet to open my laptop.

When I’d finished amusing myself with mops and disinfectant, I settled down to inventorying the books in the cases. I worked for several hours checking and listing copyright dates and printings, and then I made the discovery that Zenith Ford Brown, a.k.a. Leslie Ford, had developed a second, masculine pseudonym. Under the nom de plume, “David Frome” she wrote a dozen mysteries featuring a frail male sleuth named Mr. Pinkerton who, with the help of a stalwart Scotland Yard inspector, solved a variety of homicides. Comparisons were inevitable and depressing.

Fed up with Leslie and myself, I tossed aside Mr. Pinkerton Finds a Body and finally warmed up the laptop.

Several pages of data entry later, I concluded that the change of scenery had not improved my masterpiece. I was beginning to wonder if anything could.

The foil rolled drunkenly across the floor, the hilt nudging Jason’s toe.

“Pick it up,” ordered Lucius.

“Pick it up yourself.”

“Jeez, Jason. You can do better than that,” I muttered.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I typed.

Was I? Definitely not. Maybe a quote from the bard? I reached for my copy of Titus

?!

My copy of Titus was still in LA. I dealt with that for a moment, decided it probably wasn’t really the last straw, and resumed word-smithing.

On I slogged till about ten-thirty, developing carpal tunnel syndrome if nothing else.

Stopping for a breather, I ended up in the kitchen. I was pouring myself a glass of Merlot from one of the local wineries when I noticed the light was back on in Ted Harvey’s trailer.

Had the prodigal returned? I grabbed my jacket and trucked on out to the trailer. I was halfway across the yard when the light went out. I peered at my watch in the moonlight: 11:45.

Late for a social call, but I was way past the social niceties.

Reaching the trailer, I hammered on the door.

Nothing happened.

I pounded again and then I tried the handle. The door opened, hinges protesting loudly.

Dimly, I had an impression of movement above me and then an explosion of pain blew through my head.

Blackness descended like an anvil.